


Grace

by philos_manthanein



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Blood and Gore, Gen, Surrealism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 08:58:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8156488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philos_manthanein/pseuds/philos_manthanein
Summary: (Edited and Re-uploaded)He can't make it.





	

He can't make it.

God damn it, so close and he can’t...

It hurts... The fire in his chest and the warm wet rivers of blood against his skin, soaking his clothes like river water.

Those muddy banks that made him feel so sluggish; sinking and struggling to carry his laughing son to the shore. Better times... Valuable times... "Do you value your life, Mr. Park?"

Yes... Yes... God he does, because he made it so far Jeremy...

Jeremy Blaire with his smirk and bilious words and vile attitude and  _ fuck _ Waylon can't believe it's  _ his _ voice that's with him as he lays dying in the foyer. Blaire with his blood and guts splayed somewhere across the floor and up the ceiling. Never to pray for Waylon’s death again. Never to degrade his work at every turn. 

"Stupid Mr. Park." Says the memory and Waylon chokes out a sob realizing it's not Jeremy's voice but his own, just repeating the mantra. "Stupid, worthless Mr. Park..." 

He can't breathe.

He can't breathe.

"Darling..." 

"Oh Darling, what have they done to you?" 

Is it really  _ his _ voice?... Is it... He can't tell and, oh, that's scary. So scary he laughs. He laughs and it hurts because he's hearing Eddie Gluskin now. He's laying a minute away from salvation, and now he's officially the craziest person left in Mount Massive.

Gluskin, who would have made Waylon into a wife in the most horrifying way. Eddie who was broken long before he was admitted here.  He deserved to be locked up for the things he did... But he deserved help too... Eddie Gluskin, a boy, made a man, made a monster, long before Murkoff made him The Groom...

Long before Waylon helped them...

Let them...

"There is pain we all must endure... Though some of us bring it on ourselves."

Waylon  swears he hears their voices together then. Entwined. Like fingers laced before an execution... A deep spike through the heart.

"Oh god..." Cries Waylon Park, voice so alone. "I'm sorry." The words caress the lonely cracks in the wall. "I'm so sorry." The echo a testament to these empty words.

His tears wash away a trail of dirt and blood. And he thinks of chalk dust and prim letters on a green board; a teacher telling him he should be so proud of his sons and the way the spray bottle cleaner washes away their names at the end of the parent conference. 

He'll never read their names again... No more scrawling his own across report cards and permission slips... No more tripping over backpacks... No more spilled water making trails across the table cloth... Wet and cold spilling onto him.

Wet and cold.

Wet and cold. 

Sinking. Sinking. 

But, oh, it's so welcome. Being washed free of the grime and gore clinging to his flesh, digging into his soul. A flood from nowhere. A baptism.

Cold touches to his forehead, eyes, and mouth. Tendrils of ice against his lips. It feels reverent and, fuck, he should be scared, shouldn't he? Because this is it... He's no longer in the real world- he  _ can't  _ be - so this has to be it... This has to be what it feels like to die...

And then it pulls open his mouth and it reaches inside and it snuffs out all of Waylon's remaining cries and screams and it's  _ freezing. _ It's so cold and it's wrapping around his heart and pumping it back to life and filling his lungs and all Waylon can think is “stop stop god please stop it hurts it hurts just let me die-”.

Then, so suddenly, it's gone. And he's alive. His breath makes steam from his bruised and blue lips. The blood saturating his clothes has frozen. He opens his eyes and...

It's not gone. It's there, swirling in black mist this man-made angel... Demon... Faceless and void and cold and he remembers clearly the way it rendered Jeremy Blaire into meat.

Waylon doesn't know, he can't know, but somehow... somehow...

"M...Miles?... Miles Upshur..."

Is it possible for something faceless to smile? If it were it would and Waylon feels his skin crawl with a hundred little insects.

"Stupid fucking Mr. Park... Darling... Meat... Should he run?... Oh yes... Little pig... Be quiet shh shh... But I so like them loud-" 

A hundred bugs, a hundred voices. Crawling and scratching and screaming and speaking. One over another over another. Familiar and unfamiliar, tearing inside his brain and threatening to split open his skull.

Waylon covers his ears and a few of them laugh because it doesn't help. The voices blend together into the most excruciating static.

Suddenly the ice is gone and he finds way to his feet... how... how... how can he still move?

He limps his way outside and the sun stings his eyes but he keeps going. Stumbling until the static and the voices finally dim to a hum. Ringing ears and throbbing head. He finds his way out into an SUV. He glances back and he sees it there and he swears again it's smiling impossibly.

And he leaves...

The thing – Miles - _ lets him leave _ and he should be so relieved. His mind is racing through the nausea thinking of what to do and who to call because he made it and... and...

His hand goes to his chest, sore fingers trying to ease the ache. 

He ignores how the freezing scar over his heart makes his fingers go numb. 

  
  



End file.
